Fake Bio #__
To
write about one’s life in terms of a subjective “I” … is to
fulfill
the terms of the oppressor. I suppose I don’t know who
this "I" would or could speak for. Myself, what for?
(John Yau)
…conceived & born in Hong Kong, China, March 5, 19__, early on emigrated to Brisbee, Arizona, grew up in Needles, California (in the Mojave Desert), transplanted as a teen to Vancouver, British Columbia, due to an impetuous (perhaps ill-considered) affaire de coeur moved to Toronto, Ontario — Do you speak English? Do you enjoy American movies? American food? American music? Are you married or? I like you very much, I — the sentimental horrors encroach & recede repeatedly, the word is memory the child recalls, memory is a journal of the month of July, 19__ based on notes, writings, & a series of 1116 selfies — Each by Zealously many dangeRs mAde — stood with a wild staring expression & strabismus of the right eye, a portrait void of appearance yet replete w/animal gait, bright orange poppy next to white rose next to blue larkspur & so on, see me fuzzy around the edges & kinder, fraught-haired & wearing a red V-necked sweater, I am leaping like the pieces of a bomb, like organic shrapnel, do you hear me? It’s all japlish or ebonics (I always wished I could be funny-er, ha-ha) or perhaps a boneless hand fondling a stranger’s thigh, I mean, do I require arrowheads or dreadlocks to reach my rawest thoughts? Black lips black teeth black tongues spit out music, a story familiar as (n.b.: coming up soon, a discussion on the several uses of torture, plus, while on holiday, a Brazilian bookmobile being hijacked in a dark underground garage fiction). An idea takes shape taking shape such & such. Secretly, I am still “__________ The Mysterious” trying to remember where in time I am, what place. & what pale & what golden shimmied into paradise. In the parlance of permanence many light bulbs need replacing. Here where I uncovered my affection for the wheel & the screw. I am fastening the machine together w/delicate wire. Strips of bacon, eggs over easy, so the decades (pass) passed & pasture reverted to woodland. & so I go (went) with my little dog trotting through the melting snow to the corner store for cigarettes, orange juice & the newspaper. Below that attention, ape sense, with only the language of chemistries, outwardly calm, singularly composed, affectionately yours, sincerely, truly, gradually fading, &etc…
First Person Irregular
… not that I am
or have ever claimed to have been a green thing in a quiet house no … possessed
of a personality that shifted/shifts, depending … duck & cover, rummage
& wonder, flash & bolt … an idea takes shape taking shapes such&such … not a brick layer but a
bricoleur … here I occur in all my singular deformities … “a structure of
mortarless enjambments” … a pile of blowing leaves on an otherwise pristine
lawn … first light then shadow then after-image then memory … “the mutability
of identity across time & space” … a little morose, a little pretty [I wish
sometimes (often) I were a sharp steely knife — Swiss army issue — carried open
& dangerous inside a loose trouser pocket] … in any case too busy screening
my innermost thoughts & emotions to be of any real or immediate threat …
look! here’s a photo of me at two, here at ten, here at fourteen, then nothing,
no further trace … but then, what is a child composed of except nudity &
laughter, a portrait void of appearance yet replete w/animal gait … equivalent
lisp, immanent departure … this hill (for instance), that meadow, these woods,
though convenient for a picnic, a walk, a hike, a plein air painting, an impassioned tumble in the tall grass, are
temporary temporarily available only … “over, over, there is a soft place in my
heart for all that is over” sd Beckett … each scene as accidental as it is
inevitable … how a street turns into sensation as the curve opens … cause &
effect begin to shed their clothes momentarily … a preoccupation w/verbal
elements as objects that can be arranged to any purpose: to dazzle, to
astonish, to move … this plausible form thinks itself a garden, sans the usual accoutrements: fountains,
stone paths, greenery, the ubiquitous bearded plaster gnomes, &ETC — the
artist painted the tree thus against that sky the tree alive w/invisible
birds in no leaves — … [this is getting quite good, isn’t it? something
slightly less than compelling though almost worth the ride, yes?] … so, I must
be talking, I feel my lips move in such a fashion … I mean, is yr radio active?
… are you feeling that others can hear yr thoughts or control yr behaviour?
call the ‘psychic friends’ helpline now; in just seven days learn to read palms
like a professional; perform in-home exorcisms for fun & profit; discover how
saints & angels haunt the empty churches at midnight, forgotten by the
gob-smacked swarms of daytime tourists; lose forty pounds in forty days w/o
strict dieting or strenuous exercises; give yrself an instant facelift w/o the
pain of needles; warning, this program is intended for mature listening
audiences only, discretion is advised; contains coarse language, violence,
scenes of an explicitly sexual nature, graphic re-enactments of actual murder
cases, plus lurid descriptions of the
slaughtered victims interlaced w/bitter irony & biting social commentary …
jesus take the wheel! … [the path to god being ambiguity & vice versa, we
proceed w/reckless abandon] … “discrepant engagement” … “liberation theology” …
“the principle of insufficiency” … yadda-yadda
… yeah, been that, done there, burned the tee shirt … never immune to the lure
of flesh & glitz & awe … stocky, thick-shouldered w/blunt features
& a rough complexion … [such was the very armour I had on] … a blue-collar
“type” who drives an old beater car, drinks & smokes heavily … a one who
has sucked the clear milk out of a chopped cactus, drank piss at times (I admit
// I miss a bathtub // & a toilet // with a lid // & a handle // &
a door) … begin (always) with the mundane, the ordinary: morning coffee, toast,
half a banana, the weekend newspaper folded to the funnies, days that are long
& decked out in thunder … must learn to demystify life so can live it, I
mean, why does the cereal box have so much to say it’s just cereal inside for
pity’s sake … for a while a year is a long time then it isn’t when [oh, wait, I
didn’t tell you about the terrifying creature living beneath my bed w/hair [[long mangy hair]] yet, did I? &
luminous green eyes, & pointy teeth [[fangs,
really, though]], no I thought not, anyway … (bent low, cups the hands to light
a cigarette with a struck match) … they tell me lawn chairs are making a
comeback expecting me to care I don’t care … the ones who strive to be good,
these are the dangerous ones, those many who want to make buttons out of my
bones … face it, there are occasions when you’d be mightily satisfied with a
single healthy fart to ease the bloat … listen! someone’s att’n span just
sprung a leak — kablooie! … reminds
me of someone I used to know (younger) in beige shorts, black socks & brown
sandals, a “pandemonium of paradoxical symmetries” … lost in no blue woods
along the flood of morning, or, whatever … hey, if you were really ok you
wouldn’t turn up all covered in fog … think about it … you look out on, say, a
treed field, say, & hanging leaves, with a river, say, on the other side,
or (turning slowly the leaves of the book, say, the seasons alter) … even in
the sun you are careful not to step in the snow, such is habit … meanwhile the
dog & I stand & watch the train pass … & pass … & pass [it’s an
enormously long train with seemingly endless storage containers, each tagged,
heading somewhere somewhere distant] … I was once mysterious myself, a rarity,
until the others arrived, then not, or (at the least) not so much anymore … ah
well, think maybe I’ll go home, maybe relax, maybe read a book, maybe have a
drink, maybe paint my ass blue or set my head on fire … but there you go, by
the way … maybe …
Stan Rogal: I reside in Toronto. Work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies in Canada, the US and Europe. The author of several books plus a handful of chapbooks. An autodidactic intellectual classicist [reformed]. Speaks semi-fluent English and controversial French. Neo-Luddite and frequent tilter at windmills.